


Filhâk

by durin (frafeyrac)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brotherhood, Erebor, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Headcanon, Heartbreak, Khuzdul, Major Character Injury, Major Character Undeath, Mental Breakdown, One-Sided Relationship, Permanent Injury, Post Battle of Five Armies, References to Suicide, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:35:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frafeyrac/pseuds/durin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>What do you do when there's no sun in the sky?<br/>Please, let me go.<br/>Mahal, let me be with him.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Filhâk

He felt like his heart was empty, like the part of him that kept him alive had been ripped out and thrown away, leaving an empty cavity. The skin being sewn back together roughly, the stitching pulling and breaking each time he moved. Fíli had stopped recognising himself when he looked in the mirror, his face was gaunt, eyes sunken and his clothes all seemed too big. His skin seemed to have a grey tint, and all the laughter had left his face. 

Although he’d survived, Fíli still suffered. He’d lost much of the use of his left arm after dislocating and breaking his shoulder, and the arrow wounds that had been removed and sewn up had left their sting. He’d been left with more than physical scars, the damage etched deep into the bottom of his soul, his conscience reminding him of the cries and the faces of the men, dwarves and elves that fell around the young prince. 

Fíli raised his blades, swinging round as he aimed for his target, crying out in frustration as the bones in his shoulder wrenched together, the sword from his left hand lay about a foot away from where he’d let it go, the right having fallen not much farther from it. He picked them up from the floor, screaming as he swung blindly, smashing the walls, the targets, the brackets and anything he could reach. His shoulder was causing him blinding agony, he could feel the bones grinding together as he swung, his grief fuelling his rage. He only stopped when his shoulder couldn’t take it anymore, and he lost the grip on his weapons, falling to his knees and howling, burying his face in his hands. The space where Kíli’s bow should have been on the wall was empty, the brackets never having held the bow they were designed for. The golden haired prince found himself looking at the empty space, a new low seeming to pound in his heart.

Kíli was meant to be here, by his side. Training with him, teaching him to shoot with his steady hand in return for Fíli teaching him how to co-ordinate his hands to use duel blades. He needed his brother. The polished stone floor was scratched and scuffed from the days when it had been Thorin who had been training in this room with Frerin, and before them Thrain who trained with his father Thror. Now, Fíli trained alone, his brother gone and uncle too war damaged to lift his sword again. The world was an unfair place.  
Fíli often found himself wondering the large halls of Erebor. The cold stone was refreshing under his fingertips, even if he left greasy hand marks on the polished marble. He had no memories of Kíli here but every day he found himself wondering what his brother would make of this place, the dwarven city they’d only imagined in their dreams. In Fíli’s dreams, Kíli had always been at his side, always been out of harm’s way. He’d supposed to have always been out of harm’s way, it was meant to be the older brother who kept the younger safe and warm, not the other way round. Fíli’s fingers ran over the stone of the royal chambers, past the room that had once belonged to Dís, past the rooms where Thorin spent most of his days brooding and healing. Fíli turned a corner, bringing his hand into his side as he saw Dwalin, who would scold him for leaving marks on the walls. Fíli’s was cradling his hand in his chest, and Dwalin put a hand on his shoulder. His face was filled with sympathy as he saw the young prince, and he let his hand linger as he passed. Fíli had always been Dwalin’s favourite. 

It was often that Dwalin went to visit the king, now that Balin and Óin and Óri had left for Moria. Dwalin knew the dangers of the journey, and found some small solace and comfort in standing in for his brother, Thorin’s second-in-command, and his friend. The king had been crippled, his chest was bound together by iron and his movements stiff. He would never fight again, a real war-wounded king of legend. Thorin was sat on his chair, his bad leg outstretched. He had maps and plans and charts in front of him, and was reading without absorbing.

“How is he?” Thorin didn’t need to mention his name, they all knew who ‘he’ was.

“Mahal did a cruel thing when he kept him alive.” Dwalin dared not say no more. Thorin’s hand pulled through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. 

“The boy is grieving.” The king muttered, his eyes scanning the wall in front of him.

“He’s wasting away. The hunger will kill him if the guilt doesn’t first,” Dwalin could feel the eyes of the king come to rest on him and he folded his arms, “this is not grief, Thorin, part of him has died too. He does not speak, he does not eat, he does not sleep. All he does is wonder the halls, like a lost cub.” Dwalin couldn’t return his gaze.

The battle had affected each dwarf differently, Thorin, Dori and Bifur had received the worst injuries, whilst Bombur, Dwalin and Óri seemed to have escaped mostly unharmed. They’d lost only one, Kíli, and the haunting memory that stuck with each dwarf was Fíli’s screams for his brother, and his plea to Mahal that he take him too. That was what Dwalin and Thorin both thought of now, the inhuman sound that had escaped from Fíli’s lips when he realised his brother had fallen.   
Dwalin and Bofur had both tried to rush to his aid, but they were too late. Fíli lay with Kíli’s head on his shoulder, pierced with arrows like a stuck pig. There was a lot of blood, both black and red. Bofur had turned to Dwalin with a look of horror, before both dwarves turned and with a cry of ‘Khazad au-menû’ leapt into the battalions of orcs that surrounded them. 

Everyone had been surprised when it was revealed that Fíli was alive. He had been covered in mud and blood and no one was sure how much of it was his own, it was caked so thickly in his golden hair that it was easier to just cut it out than comb it. He didn’t speak to anyone, his whole body seemed to give up, he took the longest to heal out of any of the dwarves. 

Now Fíli found a cool breeze on his face, as he made his way up to the battlements on the top of the gates to the city. This had been where they stood when they had first seen Smaug, his uncle and Balin and the other dwarfs. Fíli’s hands ran over the weather-beaten stone, leaning over the pointed wall and gazing down into the deep black chasm below, where the river ran through the mountain. His golden hair was blown back in the wind, deep gashes and brown burnt scars now cluttered the one peaceful landscape. Fíli could see the exact place where Kíli had fallen, and he winced, shutting his eyes as he felt the sharp pain shooting through his arm. Every time he shut his eyes he saw Kíli’s face, saw the hope in his eyes as he fought alongside his brother.

Kíli had smiled, yelled something Fíli didn’t quite hear over the noise around them. Fíli had laughed anyway, and Kíli had chuckled. Fíli had then seen Kíli’s warning glance, and turned just in time to slice at the orc behind him, only to be picked up and thrown against the rocky ground by a warg minutes later. Fíli had landed shoulder first and bellowed in agony as he felt his joint shatter. Kíli had leapt over him, spinning in a whirl of leather and silver as he hacked at the warg, black blood staining his face. Neither of them had seen the scimitar that lodged itself in Kíli’s gut until it was too late, and Fíli screamed. The world seemed to stop, the orcish blade piercing straight through his brother, as he fell to his knees. His mouth bubbled red, and Fíli let out a scream, doing his best to crawl over to his brother, Kíli had smiled up at him, his whole body shaking. Fíli grabbed his hand, pressed his forehead against his brothers. He tried his best to shield him with his body, and he felt his whole body convulse as an arrow pierced his back.   
Kíli’s hands found his brothers face, movements soft and gentle as he choked for breath. Something red bubbled in his midriff, and Fíli couldn’t look. He daren’t see what his mind knew.

“I’m not scared Fíli.” Kíli’s voice had only just been more than a whisper, and Fíli’s eyes were pleading, begging. “Men lananubukhs mênu, Fíli.” Kíli’s whole body shuddered, and then he went still in Fíli’s arms. The young prince let out a noise like none had heard before, raw, animalistic, agonizing.

It was all so fresh in Fíli’s mind, his pleading with Mahal to take him too, to let him go to the great halls. Fíli hadn’t realised how far he was leaning over the parapet until part of it gave way and crumbled from under his hands. He watched it fall, he didn’t know when it hit the bottom, he heard no splash and saw no ripples in the darkness. He took in a shallow breath, it caught in his chest as he gazed into the blackness below. No, he would not jump. He took a step back as more of the stone gave way.   
There was someone calling him from further along the wall and he turned round to see Gimli approaching slowly. The young dwarf carried with him a wooden bowl, and he didn’t seem to have spotted the prince. He was craning his neck, looking ahead. Occasionally he’d stop and take a spoonful of his soup. He looked odd, out of place as he walked along the stretch of stone in his humble tunic and woollen cloaks, wooden bowl with a creamy chicken soup in his hands. 

“Fíli!” He called, tripping over his own feet and nearly spilling some of his soup on the ground. Gimli smiled when he caught a glimpse of golden hair. Fíli turned when he heard his name, his lips in a pressed tight line as he looked at the dwarf in front of him. “Your uncle requests you join him for dinner. Dwalin told me to come and find you, they’re dining in the small hall tonight.” Fíli nodded in return, turning on his heel and heading back the way he’d came. He looked back over the stone wall of the parapet, eyes casting into the darkness on the other side. 

Thorin was seated at the head of his table, Dwalin was sat on his left. The space for Fíli on his right was empty, the space on Dwalin’s left for Balin hadn’t been filled since Balin had left for Moria. Other dwarves were gathered, Dain’s son, Thorin Stonehelm was sat near Dwalin, whilst Gloin and Dori were sat closer to the other end of the table. Most of the dwarves had changed, and it was in stark contrast to the young prince who now entered the chamber. Fíli’s hair was unkempt, he hadn’t tried to plait or tame it since it was cut after the battle. His clothes hung off his slim frame, dirtied by dust and mud and many other stains. He pulled his chair out in silence, eyes flicking to the dwarf of the Iron Hills who was sat opposite him, to his left.

“I asked Dain if his son would join us for a few months, I thought you would benefit from having company around your own age.” Thorin’s hand brushed over Fíli’s, and his light blue eyes met darker ones.

_But Gimli is around my age. You’ve brought Dain’s son here to try and replace Kíli._

Fíli’s face said what his mouth failed to, and Thorin’s eyes seemed to scan his features. Fíli pulled his hand away, breaking his stare and looking to his left, the empty seat for his mother. Dís was meant to have arrived last week, sending ravens back and forth between her brother, talking of excitement to see her son and brother again, and grief that only one of her sons was able to see the majesty of Erebor. Dís had not travelled with the large group of dwarven warriors that had arrived with the dwarves from the Iron Hills, and had instead decided to travel with a smaller group of both women and men whom she’d trusted as friends. The ravens had stopped a week before her supposed arrival, and nothing had been heard or seen of Dís and her friends since her last raven. 

Her last correspondence had addressed Thorin’s worries about Fíli, after he had sent her a long, painful message expressing his concern for his nephew. Dís had said only one thing in her reply,

_Remember your grief when Frerin was slaughtered by the pale orc.  
Send Fíli my love, Dís_

The words had reopened the old wound Thorin had tried to heal after his brother had been killed, murdered, at the hands of Azog. Frerin had been just a boy, with their mothers golden hair and not very much beard. It had been the golden hair that set him out from the rest, made him an easy target for the King of the Orcs.

Thorin followed Fíli’s gaze to the empty seat. He didn’t know how he was going to tell the boy his mother had disappeared, and no one had seen or heard from her. Not when the grief of losing his brother was etched so deeply into the lines on his face. No, Thorin would wait. He would wait until he knew what had happened to Dís, it was possible she’d gone off course or gotten lost. She hadn’t been much older than thirteen when they left Erebor. Her journey had taken her just under six months. She’d be lost, tired and homesick. It was most likely she got lost and in her tired state chose to rest at a nearby town, the ravens not finding her as they she wasn’t where they were told to go to.

Fíli’s food was untouched, and Thorin was watching him carefully. He didn’t have to look at Dwalin to know that his most trusted friend was giving him a look that told him not to fret. He’d heard it so many times from Dwalin, that the boy was grieving and he missed his mother and brother, that it’d all work out in time and Fíli would one day be the happy, smiling little lion cub that Dwalin could remember from Ered Luin. They both knew the later would never happen in their hearts, cubs only ever flourished when there were two. 

“Where is my mother?” A stunned silence fell around the table. Fíli’s voice sounded so soft and quiet, and Thorin could only think of the loud, brave, naïve boy who’d left with him to reclaim Erebor, speaking his mind with such ease that only a loud, over-confident young khuz could manage. Fíli had none of that confidence now, he sounded small and broken and timid. He had barely been heard by those at the other end of the table.

Fíli was looking straight at Thorin, his eyes seemed to be piercing into his core. It was eerie, and Thorin opened his mouth, only to shut it again. He didn’t know what to say, how to tell him he didn’t know why his mother wasn’t here, why she wasn’t returning his ravens anymore.

“I – She – Your mother is on her way. She’s just taking longer than we thought she would.” It wasn’t a total lie, Thorin thought to himself. There was nothing to say that Dís wasn’t on her way and she was taking longer than they’d presumed she would. 

He could tell his answer wasn’t enough by the way Fíli’s gaze turned into a glare, his mouth drew up into a tight line. He knew, he knew.

“Did you kill her too?” Fíli’s voice was still quiet, but it was cold. In Ered Luin, his questioning and defiance would have led to a sharp talking to from Dwalin or Thorin and even sometimes a slap round the ear from his mother. His mother wasn’t here tonight, and Thorin was too shocked that he’d spoken to register the comment. The whole table was shocked that he’d spoken after months of holding his tongue. Fíli knew that normally Thorin would have sent him away for such a comment but today he sat there, forcing a blank look to his face. The silence was only broken by Dwalin like a spell that had been lifted. He thumped his large hand down on the table as he would have done every time one of the boys made one of their underhand, snide comments.

“Enough of that now boy. Your uncle’s told you all he knows. What are you, a prince of Durin’s line or a hill-wondering savage?” for a moment, Dwalin saw the old Fíli, the Fíli he knew. His action had taken the prince by surprise, and his face contorted into that smile that usually came when he was facing retribution. He’d look round for Kíli, their expressions the same and oh. 

Fíli’s hands dropped to his lap, and he didn’t look up from the meal that had been placed before him until he was permitted to leave the table. There was talk of the Iron Hills, of Balin in Moria, of a princess he was to wed from across the Orocani Mountains. There was even talk of old tales of Erebor, and favourite stories of Ered Luin. Fíli did not listen to one of them, he didn’t listen as Thorin Stonehelm talked of his father, or as Dwalin talked of Balin and the mithril mines. Not even the tales told by his uncle as to the beauty of the bride he was to wed drew his eye from his plate. He had long since blocked out the sound of those around him, retreating back into himself. He was exhausted, talking had exhausted him and he took his leave as soon as he could, trying his best not to run out of the hall. He knew that someone was following him, he could hear the heavy footsteps. They weren’t uneven enough for the limp of his crippled uncle, nor where they heavy enough for Dwalin, there was no clink of armour and weaponry. Fíli assumed they were those of Thorin Stonehelm, he could only imagine his uncle had sent the boy after him. It was all a big plot to make him talk.

Fíli’s assumptions turned out to be correct when he was in his chambers, sat on the edge of his bed as he unbuckled his boots. Thorin Stonehelm had walked past, lying down on the mattress of the other bed. It hadn’t been touched since Kíli had last made it, the morning of that day. Fíli hadn’t let anyone touch it, he’d locked himself in his chambers in a fit of rage and anger and barricaded the door, screaming curses in khuzdul at anyone who tried to enter. Even fair Bilbo had been unable to get through the door, with all his newfound skills as a burglar and his soft words Fíli still blocked him out. Bilbo had tried to talk to him about his own grief at his parents demise ten years earlier. It was only now Thorin Stonehelm was on Kíli’s bed that Fíli wished he’d listened to the hobbit.

“What’s there to do in your free time? I bet you do something, I’ve seen some of those serving girls, handsome prince like you. Back home I have three different girls a week.” Thorin Stonehelm was smirking, although he truthfully didn’t know what to talk about with his cousin. The dwarves of the Iron Hills were rougher than this. They spoke of women and drink freely, and he was now wondering if this was the right thing to speak about. The Long-beards might have more prudence than those of the Iron Hills, but Thorin Stonehelm was sure he’d seen Dwalin squeeze the buttocks of one of the girls who’d served their dinner, and had heard the laughter and songs the princes had sung on one of his visits to Ered Luin.

“That’s Kíli’s bed.” Fíli’s voice was filled with a silent rage, and it bubbled inside him the way it had done with his father. Bubbling until it burst, exploding in a violent flow of uncontrollable, effortless anger. “Get off it.” 

Thorin Stonehelm hadn’t heard him, and he lazed back. He had his hands behind his head, resting on the pillow. He still had his boots on and they left dark muddy stains where the heels were resting on the royal blue sheets. 

“The princess they want you to marry, Runla, they say she’s one of the most beautiful princesses on the other side of the Orocani Mountains. Hair like bronze and tits like,” Thorin Stonehelm paused to make a motion with his hands, “unless you’re not into that of course, maybe it’s not women that catch your fancy.” He chuckled, he knew how much Fíli loved women.

In Ered Luin Fíli had openly talked about girls. Fíli was young and handsome and it was often he’d be found with a miner’s daughter or one of the kitchen maids, in some back hall or alleyway, sweet talking them. Kíli had been jealous of his brother, he wasn’t as typically handsome but was just as charming, if not more so, when it came to women. Even if sometimes the only way he’d get one of the tavern lasses to sit on his lap was because he was of royal blood. In fact, the last time Thorin Stonehelm had seen his cousin they’d both had their eye on the same maid. Thorin Stonehelm had tried to charm her and woo her in vain, only for Fíli to guide her out the door with a wink at his brother and cousin minutes later.

Fíli had no time to talk about women now. He felt like he was being pulled tighter and tighter inside, ready to snap. How dare this dwarf of the Iron Hills barge in and lie on his brothers’ bed and muddy the sheets with his boots at the invitation of his Uncle. 

Dwalin was alerted by a scream, and a bang. He had been wondering back to his own quarters next to Thorin’s, deep in thought and worry, when he heard the muffled noise coming from the direction of the prince’s rooms. He knew Fíli and their guest from the Iron Hills were in there, Thorin having sent Dain’s son as soon as his nephew had left the hall after dinner. Dwalin’s thoughts first went to Dain’s hostility towards Durin’s line, and that harm had come to his prince. He thundered along the corridor, metal capped boots echoing off the stone floor. He’d expected the door to be locked, and nearly fell as he threw his shoulder against it and it opened. He staggered, not expecting the scene in front of him.

Fíli was straddling Thorin Stonehelm’s back, his hands tangled in his hair as he slammed his face into the cold floor. Dain’s son let out a howl as Fíli pulled his head back up, and Dwalin pounced, pulling them apart. He grabbed at Fíli, landing a swift kick to his gut from the red eyed, angered prince. Dwalin endured the kicking and biting of the prince with gritted teeth, the damage to Dain’s son was enough to cause more rifts between the two clans. Fíli was fighting Dwalin’s restraint, and Dwalin gripped him harder, his hands behind his back. 

Thorin Oakenshield had heard the scream, the bang, Dwalin’s roar. He was running, steps uneven and his bad leg threatening to buckle under him. He had been changing, he’d retired to his chambers early in the night and was wearing his nightshirt, he’d unbound parts of his hair and it hung loosely round his shoulders and he slid as he rounded the corner, bad leg jarring and locking straight. He could hear the desperate cry of his nephew, and what was left of his heart seemed to shatter. What Thorin saw when he reached the doorway left him in shock. The prince of the Iron Hills was bloody faced, and he’d managed to heave himself up onto his elbows. Fíli was struggling in Dwalin’s arms, a hacking, raw cry coming from his throat. His mane of hair hung wild round his face, his cheeks splashed with red and his hands balled. Thorin was frozen, unsure if he should prize his nephew away from Dwalin or tend to his bloodied guest. 

Thorin had seen the wild expression once before, pure rage that exploded and unhinged even the mightiest of kings. Thorin had been the one who’d suffered because of it, when he’d pulled Thrór away from his gold and his grandfather had struck him and fought with him and would have sentenced his grandson to the unspeakable punishment if Thráin hadn’t been there to remind him they needed the warrior prince if they were to take back Khazad-dum. Thorin suffered in silence, Frerin and Dís were forbidden to talk with him, and Thorin spent his nights weeping for his grandfather. The gold sickness had such a hold on Thrór, it was only when they were miles from Erebor and Dís was lying in her sick bed with a raging fever that Thrór forgave Thorin. Looking at Fíli now, Thorin felt fear shoot through his veins. This wasn’t his nephew, this wasn’t the same boy that had rescued a sparrow chick that had fallen from the nest and kept it warm with his own cloaks and furs, and had cried when the chick had died and demanded that they bury it with a dwarven funeral. 

“Fíli, I-“ Thorin held out his hand, and his nephew snarled at him. Thorin had never meant to flinch, but he did. Dain’s son was still sprawled on the floor, and it was the king who helped him to his feet and barked out that Dwalin was to keep Fíli under house arrest, that he would make sure it was Óin’s lad who attended Thorin Stonehelm’s wounds and that he would be back to deal with Fíli later. Dwalin had nodded, the boy in his arms went limp. The little fight he had left was gone. Dwalin let Fíli press his head into his chest and scream, to pound his fists and sob. Dwalin let him cry and howl and kept a reassuring hand on his back. Dwalin knew of separation anxiety, he knew of being apart from your brother. Without Balin at his side he felt vulnerable. The pain and heartache Fíli must be going through was unimaginable to him, Dwalin knew he owed his strength and his courage to his brother. It was Balin’s daily ravens that kept him strong, and his oath to Thorin that had stopped him leaving.

Thorin never came to deal with Fíli later, not after Dwalin had pleaded with him to leave the boy be and that he would take his punishment instead. Thorin had retired to his rooms for the night, after staying with Thorin Stonehelm while Óin’s lad did his best, rubbing his father’s ointments into his wounds and finally putting him to sleep with poppy tears, he had a broken jaw and when the swelling went down it was guessed that his nose was the same. Thorin was weary, and the young healer gave him the vial his father had prescribed for the king. Thorin was now sat at the desk in his study, his hand shaking and blotting the ink as he wrote another message to send to Dís.

“You understand Dain will want to punish Fíli for his actions?” Thorin had heard Dwalin come in, and Dwalin nodded slowly, and remembering his king couldn’t see him, he mumbled out an ‘aye’.

“He’s not in the right state of mind Thorin, you just have to look at him to see that.” Dwalin strode over to the fire, his voice low. He glanced over to his king, hunched over his desk. “Still no news of Dís?” 

“I fear there will never be news from my sister again. Fíli thinks the same, I know he does. He blames me Dwalin, he blames me for everything he doesn’t blame himself for.” 

“And what if you are to blame?” Dwalin kept his gaze on the king, watching his movements, the clenching of his fists as he tried to sit up straight, the flexing of his wrists from the cramps of holding the pen. 

“Then I’ll take the blame for all that’s happened. I’d rather Fíli hates me, he pins everything on me and leaves Erebor to go back to the Orocani Mountains and take up his throne there and never again thinks of the line of Durin with compassion then take the blame for the death of his brother.”

“Fíli can never return to the Orocani’s,” Dwalin muttered, and Thorin raised an eyebrow. Dwalin had never meant to betray Dís’s confidence in him, it had slipped out and the look on Thorin’s face warned him that he better keep talking, “Dís, I – she confided in me, before we left Ered Luin. She told me about her husband, about the Iron Fists. Fíli, he can never return. Not after what he did there, if he is ever to return they’ll rip him limb from limb and put his head on a pike.”

Fíli was treated differently now, even members of the Company seemed to take a wider berth when passing him in the halls. Fíli saw this exclusion as another way to distance himself, his downward spiral growing deeper and deeper. His uncle no longer requested his presence at meals and there were days when he didn’t leave his rooms, instead he sat on the bed that belonged to Kíli. He’d done his best to scrub out the mud stains, after refusing to let anyone near the sheets in case they tried to change them. He didn’t read the khuzdul histories and poetries that were in the bookshelves, they sat on their shelves with the same skin of dust that had accumulated while Smaug treated Erebor as his home. Fíli didn’t speak, rarely moved. The stiffness in his shoulder growing worse and worse whilst his blades lay discarder where their owner had thrown them after the last time he’d tried to swing them. 

He barely slept, and when he did he always had the same nightmare that woke him up with the same guilt. No one saw him, and no one came to visit except for Dwalin. Dwalin would sometimes sit up with him at night, and tell him what he’d missed at court that day, what news there was from the Blue Mountains and then he’d tell him about Balin and Moria, and how Balin’s new colony was forming and how proud Balin was of Ori, and each night Fíli pretended to listen to what had happened at court that day and who had arrived from Ered Luin and it was only when Dwalin talked of his brother that Fíli listened, not to the words but to the underlying worry and anxiety that came with Balin not being here and Fíli knew he had found a kindred spirit. 

Dwalin caught him off guard that night, his visits became fewer and fewer as his worries became greater and greater. Fíli hadn’t been expecting him to visit at all, as he was sat on Kíli’s bed, knees to his chest in a tight ball. Dwalin didn’t sit, he was early tonight.

“Thorin wants to see you tonight. Dain is visiting and you have to be in court. Thorin wants you to be presentable, he wants your hair clean and he wants you to wear the colour of Durin. He said I’m to dress you and comb your hair and carry you to him if you refuse.” Dwalin crossed his arms, standing firm and square. 

Fíli knew this was important, that he couldn’t endure Thorin’s wrath if he refused. It was begrudgingly that he found himself wearing the dark blue that marked his line, the cloth itching at his skin. He’d been taught the ways of state meetings, taught as the prince regent he was expected to look a certain way. It was unfortunate that not even Dwalin could pull the tats out of his hair, and it hung in near-dreadlocks. Dwalin had grunted and told him he’d have to do, and he’d be accompanying Fíli to the throne room. The footsteps rang out on the floor, the metal hard and sharp to his ears. It had been so long since he’d last worn something so ceremonial. His hands were itching at his sleeves, leaving red marks from his bitten nails. He paused so he could scratch at his knees, and felt Dwalin’s arm press him forward. Fíli bit his lip, he didn’t like this. He didn’t like how he was treated like a prisoner, like he was an outcast, a stain on the honourable line of Durin. Even in the Blue Mountains, Fíli had been different. He was tall, taller than a lot of his peers. Dís had reassured him, told him it was the Iron Fist in him. Fíli couldn’t remember much of his time in the Orocani Mountains so he took her word as an explanation, even when Kíli never seemed to catch him up and by the time he was fifty he was nearly as tall as Dwalin was. Fíli had believed a lot of what his mother told him about the Iron Fists, his own memories were so few and they each seemed to be tinted red. When Fíli was younger his dreams had scared him from sleep, kept him up all night and even when Dís stroked his golden hair and sang to him in her sweet, songbird voice, Fíli had lain in his bed with his eyes wide open. It had taken Kíli and his deep sleep where he didn’t twitch or cry out or wake up in a cold sweat for Fíli to realise that every time he shut his eyes he wouldn’t find himself staring into cold, dead eyes. When Fíli did have that dream, he just had to look at his brother in his peaceful slumber and he could breathe again. 

Now that Kíli was gone he didn’t sleep, when he did he saw not just grey eyes but brown eyes that had once been so filled with warmth and light. The thought of it made him shiver, his exhausted body twitching enough that Dwalin let go with his hand.   
Dain was already in the dining hall, sat next to his son with the broken nose and mending jaw. Dain had been sure he’d have made it clear Fíli was no longer welcome in the Iron Hills, and that for his crimes he should be receiving something much more severe than house arrest. The dwarf he saw in front of him wasn’t the same prince he’d seen only a few years ago. It took him by surprise, how weak and unkempt and un-dwarf like he looked. It shocked him so much that instead of beginning by addressing both Thorin and his nephew he was silent, brow furrowed as Fíli took his seat.  
Fíli kept his eyes on his plate, fingers chasing round the cheeses and meats presented to him. Someone nudged him, and Dwalin gave him what he hoped was a smile of encouragement. Fíli didn’t return it, he knew why he was here, under the brow of the Lord of the Iron Hills, who wanted his repayment for the damages to his son. The conversation was light, a false glimmer of friendship before the two leaders turned to matter of the state. Fíli didn’t care to listen, he didn’t try to. He just let his mind wonder.

“Your sister has not yet joined you?” It was Dain who asked, nodding at the empty seat on his left. Dain had his attention now, and he watched Thorin carefully.

“Dís is travelling from Ered Luin, she’ll be with us shortly.” Thorin was tight lipped, not offering more than he wanted too. 

“Why lie?” Fíli spat it out at him, his fist thumping the table. He stood, knocking his wooden chair backwards and it fell to the floor with a bang. “She’s not coming from Ered Luin, she’s not coming to Erebor to join her brother and serve her king. She’s never coming back here.” Fíli’s voice was shaking, all the anger and rage at his uncle had built up and was swirling inside of him, stirring up urges and thoughts been long forgotten.

“Sit down Fíli.” Thorin commanded it, his eyes hard and cold. He wasn’t Uncle Thorin scolding his insolent nephew now, he was the King Under the Mountain, sincere and firm. “I told you to sit down.” Thorin didn’t mean to shout, not with company. He knew Dain’s mind was filled with questions on the stability of Thrór’s line, the stability of the next king being half Iron Fist. It would not do well for Fíli to disobey him now.

“You did this.” Fíli hissed, and then he threw his plate and the food on it across the hall, the sound of metal and stone echoing. “You did this, you’re the reason she’s not here, the reason he’s not here. It’s all your fault, I never asked for this.” He screamed, his hands flailed about him, sending cutlery flying. Dwalin was on his feet, ready to grab at him. It was Thorin who took his hands, and was rewarded with kicks as Fíli writhed, red and angry and with a burning fire in his eyes. “It’s your fault, all your fault. He’s dead because of you, it’s all because of you! You think you know how I feel, you think you understand.” 

Thorin felt something inside of him break, and he picked him up by the front of his furs. All injuries and pains were forgotten with the anger, everything that had been threatening to spill out finally reaching the surface.

“I had a brother once too, Fíli! You think I don’t know what you’re going through? I had a brother once and I watched him die. I watched him die fighting an enemy he had no chance against. Frerin was just a boy Fíli, he never got the chance to grow up, to make his own decisions! He fought defending me, defending this family, and you’re willing to throw everything he fought for, everything he died for, everything Kíli died for.” Thorin’s voice rang round the halls, his good arm pressed up against Fíli’s neck. 

“I hate you.” Fíli growled, and Thorin dropped him only to pick him up by the scruff of his neck. He could feel his leg jarring and hissing and the crippling pain that ran through his whole body, causing him to shiver and twist but he couldn’t stop now as he dragged Fíli to the doors. 

“Go then, go back to the Iron Fists who would slaughter a man for the mention of your name. Go back to the savages where you really belong. Get out of my sight, _zughd_.”

Thorin could feel himself crumbling, the ache in his chest new and not from wounds of a battle that should have taken his life. A part of him mourned already, not for his sister but for his nephew. There was no trace of the lion of the Blue Mountains any more, there was nothing more than a broken body with a broken spirit, a heart that would never truly beat again. Thorin knew the he had not lost one nephew, but he had lost two. In the cruellest of all card games Thorin had been dealt the hand that left him to watch what was left of his family crumble, his own body too weak and crippled to be the crutch to hold them up, or the bandage to bind them together.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I have the ending scene planned, but due to a lack of creativity I'm not sure how to go about it.  
> This has been my baby, and you can see where I ran out of ideas and had to really push myself.
> 
> I confess I don't like writing in dickhead Dain, and the same for Thorin Stonehelm. There's a lot of territory between Thorin and Dain and Fíli and Thorin Stonehelm that I've yet to cover, and the same for what Fíli did in his past.  
> Thorin Stonehelm is well, I'll let you make your own decisions, but I like him.
> 
> I haven't got a beta so any mistakes let me know. I think I'm the worst person when it comes to structure as I'm so distracted and often have ideas and go 'WRITE IT IN EVEN IF IT MAKES NO SENSE'.
> 
> I'd written an ending to this whole work, but I didn't think it fit with the ending I wanted. Gimli also will play a much bigger part, and I was never planning to become so attached to Dwalin, but I did.
> 
> And then there's Fíli, my baby and I put too many headcanons and too much love into this.  
> Gah, hope you enjoyed anyway.


End file.
